Dia de los Muertos Artwork

Orange, turquoise and gold: the palette of the Dia de los Muertos paintings has a precise origin

This orange that crowns the skulls is that of the marigolds of the altars

Look at what dominates the Dia de los Muertos paintings: a dense, slightly reddish orange, never pastel. It does not remain in the background. It forms the crowns placed on the heads, fills the orbits with tightly packed petals, falls in a garland along the shoulders and edges of the hat. This orange comes from a real flower: the cempasúchil, the Mexican marigold, which is piled up in bunches at the markets and peeled from the grave to the threshold to guide the dead. On these canvases, it does what the flower does outdoors: it catches the eye, then leads it to the face.

The turquoise of the flowered skulls is not a painter's fantasy

In the Dia de los Muertos paintings, the blue-green does not just make up the background: it comes to settle in scales, in petals, in circles around the orbits, directly on the bone, in small juxtaposed touches that imitate a mosaic. This rapprochement is very ancient: long before the current festivities, Mixtec goldsmiths assembled skulls covered with thousands of turquoise shards, a stone considered more precious than gold. A forehead painted that today is covered with this blue-green re-enacts the gesture without saying it, and that is where the gravity of these smiling faces comes from.

Violet against gold, blue against yellow: the Dia de los Muertos paintings advance in pairs of opposites

A detail catches the eye as soon as several Dia de los Muertos paintings are aligned: the colors walk in pairs, and by pairs of opposite shades. A violet border frames a golden forehead, a midnight blue background makes a yellow ribbon vibrate, the turquoise of an orbit responds to the orange of the neighboring petal. Nothing gratuitous in all this: it is the heritage of papel picado, these garlands of tissue paper cut stretched above the November tables, and glacéd alfeñique candies. Hung on a light wall, these pairs do the same job as a stretched garland: they animate the entire room.

The hat, fan, and jewelry in the Dia de los Muertos paintings all come from a satire.

The large, flowered hat on these skulls comes from a newspaper caricature.

Almost all Dia de los Muertos paintings feature the same accessory: a large hat with a floppy brim, so wide that it sometimes overflows the frame, adorned with roses, feathers, and ribbons, tilted on one temple. It doesn't originate from any rural folklore. It was born at the beginning of the 20th century on cheap newspaper paper, under the burin of José Guadalupe Posada, who coifs a skull with the latest European fashion to mock Mexican women rejecting their origins. What these canvases place on the skull is therefore an emblem of mockery.

Fan open and silver pendants: these skulls wear the wardrobe of the Belle Époque.

Fan unfolded at the end of bony fingers gloved, round silver pendants that catch the light, high collar, dress that swirls: the Dia de los Muertos paintings borrow the wardrobe of the Porfiriat salons, that late 19th-century Mexico turned towards Paris. The word catrín used to designate the impeccably dressed gentleman; the Catrina is its emaciated version. As for the metal painted with such care, it owes nothing to chance: the silver worked in Taxco is the ordinary material of Mexican jewelry. Hence these figures dressed to go out, and not returned from a tomb.

In which room do these Dia de los Muertos paintings in full regalia find their place?

Seen up close, the Dia de los Muertos paintings are portrait displays : the face occupies most of the canvas, the gaze is at eye level, and the adornment is treated with the care once reserved for court portraits. This makes them surprisingly fitting in an entrance hall, a hallway, or a dressing room, where you look at yourself before leaving: the painted adornment responds to the one you are adjusting. A smartly dressed figure welcoming you at the threshold is better than a polished landscape.

Why do Dia de los Muertos paintings show made-up faces rather than skeletons?

Under the painted skull, the eye has remained alive.

The decisive detail of the Dia de los Muertos paintings lies in very little: under the painted skull, the eye is alive. The makeup stops at the eyelids, the skin remains visible at the temples, the lips sewn with black lines remain lips. These are people made up for a night, not corpses. The custom is also recent: face painting has spread in the 20th century, and then with the large urban parades, while domestic altars go back much further. We therefore hang portraits, with all the presence that a portrait imposes on a room.

Neither hourglass nor candle: what these Dia de los Muertos paintings do not owe to vanities.

A painted skull in Europe is accompanied by an hourglass, a smoking candle, and dull browns: it preaches. Dia de los Muertos paintings do the opposite, and that shows before you even know why. The skull is frontal, coiffed, flowered, often hilarious, treated in bright colors and without morbid shadows. The difference is cultural: on one side a warning to the living, on the other an annual visit that is prepared with flowers, music and dishes. At home, the nuance weighs heavily: these canvases install no solemnity in a room.

The dark backgrounds of the Dia de los Muertos paintings evoke a cemetery vigil.

Why do these vibrant figures so often stand out against a deep background? Because the party takes place at night. Families spend the night of November 1st to 2nd in the glow of veladoras, those little candles enclosed in colorful lanterns whose flame ignites the orange of the flowers and leaves everything else in darkness. Dia de los Muertos paintings reprise this sharing: saturated colors in the center, darkness all around. In a dimly lit living room, or under a directed lamp, they continue to function exactly like a wake.

FAQ on dia de los muertos paintings

Are these adorned Catrinas always figures of women?

Almost always, and it shows immediately: updo hairstyle, earrings, lace collar, flowered hat. The language is a lot to do with it, as death is referred to as 'la muerte' in the feminine, with familiar nicknames like 'la Flaca' or 'la Catrina'. The latter is born from a caricature aimed at a merchant who dreamed of being a Spanish lady, therefore a woman from the start. A few male faces in hats exist on these canvases, but they remain rare.

Do these flowered skulls risk frightening a young child?

Rarely, and that's what characterizes this imagery. None of these faces grimace, bleed, or threaten: the orbits are filled with petals, the teeth form a regular smile, the colors are those of a birthday treat. In Mexico, children crunch sugar skulls bearing their first name written on the forehead. Little ones first recognize a painted face for a party, like at carnival, and ask questions instead of stepping back.

Is it inappropriate to hang flowered skulls in a dining room?

On the contrary, it is probably the most appropriate room. These faces are painted straight on, at eye level, like someone sitting across from you. Now the Mexican celebration is entirely around a table: an altar is set up laden with bread of the dead, fruits, and chocolate, which the family then shares. Eating under the gaze of the dead is nothing incongruous there. These adorned figures then play the role of extra guests.